


Young Love

by Angelily_Viventis



Series: Alan Rickman x Plus-size reader [59]
Category: Alan Rickman - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Awkward Romance, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Romance, School Uniforms, Teen Romance, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelily_Viventis/pseuds/Angelily_Viventis
Summary: Follow Alan and (Y/N) back to 1965 as they share their first sexual encounter together.
Relationships: Alan Rickman/Original Female Character(s), Alan Rickman/Reader
Series: Alan Rickman x Plus-size reader [59]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729954
Kudos: 7





	Young Love

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The previous 80's one-shot was such a hit that I decided to do another one of Alan and Reader but when they were even younger. This one takes place in 1965 - I have done some research and I'm trying to stick to a realistic timeline of which events would have happened in Alan's life in the 60s, but since this is fanfiction, after all, I have made some changes. Please don't crucify me.
> 
> Most facts about Alan in this one, as in the 80s one, is actually true and is from the book: Alan Rickman, the Unauthorized Biography. I know he hated the book since the writer was so off about most of his character, but I did some research and the facts I use in here and in the previous one is indeed true. The book is really good to read, though, if you guys haven't already read it. It gives a lot of insight about Alan from his friends' perspectives.

The 1960s is one of the most tumultuous and divisive decades in world history, marked by the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War and antiwar protests, political assassinations and the emerging "generation gap."

With Rock 'n' Roll bands such as The Beatles making headlines in the music industry, recreational drugs are now synonymous with the sixties. The Woodstock festival have people high on marijuana and LSD, dancing in fields with paint on their faces and their hair flowing free.

The mini skirt just made it's appearance, designed to be free and liberating for women, allowing them to "run and jump". Fashion trends consist of simple geometric shapes and colours which give women a new kind of femininity. Women are free to wear more playful, youthful clothes that would have seemed outrageous ten years before. Psychedelic prints and vibrant colours are beginning to appear on clothes as the hippie movement gathers pace.

The Swinging Sixties is a youth-driven cultural revolution that emphasises modernity and fun-loving hedonism, with Swinging London as its centre. It sees a flourishing in art, music and fashion, and is symbolised by the city's "pop and fashion exports".

Young people are finally given a voice and freedom to do what they want. The parents of the Sixties teenage generation has spent their youth fighting for their lives in the Second World War and now want their own children to enjoy their youth and be able to have more fun and freedom. 

Which is why Alan is so utterly irritated with his mother right now. Instead of allowing him to _enjoy his youth_ by visiting his pals down by the tracks, he is stuck at home doing homework on Mother's orders. 

"Alan, get the door, would you, love?" Margaret calls down from the top of the stairs at her sixteen-year-old son.

With a huff and an eye-roll, he discards his pencil on top of his homework, deliberately letting the chair scrape against the flooring as he pushes his chair out. While dragging his feet, he makes his way over to the front door, taking his time.

_It's probably only the milkman, anyway._

"Hi, Alan," (Y/N)'s cheery voice calls and she gives a polite wave as he opens the door.

Her breath hitches in her throat upon seeing him. The tall, awkwardly lengthy boy that is Alan. He sure has sprouted since last summer. He is now unusually tall for a boy his age, at six foot one. His dark, sandy brown hair is cut short but there's still enough in the front to be swept to the side. He is still dressed in his school uniform - a faded light blue button-up dress shirt, grey woolly trousers, and his black loafers. His clothes look a little tattered, but she knows he is wearing his best.

"Oh, hey, (Y/N). Didn't expect you to come around today," his whole demeanour uplifts at seeing her.

 _How beautiful she looks today_ , he thinks to himself.

Unlike Alan, she's not wearing her school uniform. She's wearing a long, flowing, orange crimplene dress with a large white peter pan collar that lays flat upon her shoulders. A row of twenty-six tiny white buttons run down the front of the dress, a white material belt cinching it in at her thick waist. Her sleeves are short, ending just above the elbow, revealing her tender forearms. From the way her sagging perky breasts are pointed, he can tell she's not wearing a brassiere, which causes goosebumps to form on his arms.

Although the school doesn't allow it, she has dolled up for her visit. Her eyelids are adorned in blue eyeshadow, her eyebrows drawn in, making her look a few years older than what she is. Her dark brown hair shines in the sun, slightly curled up at the ends, resting just past her collar bone.

"Well? Who is it?" Margaret's voice pulls him from his thoughts.

"It's (Y/N), Mum," he calls back. "Come in, come in. Mother's busy cleaning upstairs."

He steps aside to let her in, the light spring breeze following her inside.

"Oh, hello, dear," Margaret comes down the stairs on creaky knees, giving (Y/N) a kiss on the cheek.

"Hello, Mrs Rickman, how do you do?" She asks shyly, clutching her book bag in front of her.

"I'm alright, thank you for asking. Now, has Alan offered you some tea?"

Margaret is very adamant about teaching her three boys about chivalry and respect for the opposite gender. 

She wonders if Margaret was also the one who taught Alan's father, Bernard, his manners. He sure was a true gentleman. (Y/N) has known the Rickmans since early childhood when she and Alan were just mere tods. She still remembers how devastated all four of the children were when Alan's father passed away from lung cancer when Alan was only eight and Sheila, being the youngest, was four.

Although they were a very loving family, (Y/N) recalls how the clash of cultures between Alan's Irish Catholic father and his Welsh Methodist mother would often result in sounds of banging doors and weeping behind them.

"I was getting to that, Mum," he turns around to face his mother with reddened cheeks, his voice pulling (Y/N) from her thoughts.

"Well, get on with it," Margaret ushers him towards the kitchenette, eliciting a protesting groan from the young teen.

(Y/N) giggles softly at his childish foot-stamping. Alan sure is the passive-aggressive type, one who digs his heels in, who wants things his own way. But not in a loud way. Very often, since his early childhood, there have been battles, but he rebels quietly. He smiles on the surface but often won't comply.

His mother leads her towards the kitchen table where Alan was in the middle of doing his homework earlier. She gingerly takes a seat, pulling her books from her tattered brown leather bookbag.

"Your grandmother rang me, talking about your marks, dear," Margaret says as she keeps a steady eye on her boy in the small yellow linoleum kitchenette, preparing the tea.

"Yes, ma'am. She told me," (Y/N) dips her head shyly, her dark brown fringe covering her equally dark eyes.

"You did a wonderful job. I would love it if you would stay longer in the afternoons to help Alan improve his."

Alan's shoulders drop at hearing his mother's words. He knows she's just wanting the best for him but it still hurts knowing she isn't satisfied with the marks he's bringing home. 

She leaves the two teens to finish their homework after Alan politely hands (Y/N) her cup of steaming hot tea.

"What did you get for question H?" She waits patiently for his answer, still looking down at her writing.

After receiving no answer, she looks up at him, seeing him in the middle of drawing a tiny house in the corner of his worksheet. He has always been a dreamy child, wrapped up in his own little world, doodling and scribbling.

"Alan?" She pulls him from his thoughts yet again.

"Hm?"

"I said, what did you get for the answer to question H?"

"Oh, I don't.... B?" He replies with a shrug, his mind still in the process of returning from where it has been miles away in space.

She pulls his worksheet towards her, forgetting about the doodle, and noticing his eloquent handwriting. She's always been jealous of his handwriting. For a boy, he has this elegant, flowing, effortless calligraphy. She knows Alan is a very talented watercolourist, she has seen some of his paintings.

"It can't be B, silly," she giggles, "It has to have a numerical value."

"I utterly despise homework," Alan groans, running his lanky nicotine-stained fingers frustratedly through his hair.

She looks intently at his hands. Those hands she wishes she can feel on her body.

As a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, Alan is self-conscious enough as a prefect in fifth form to assume that aloofness conferred authority. Tabacco helps the nerves, and he sure does puff away at the ciggies as much as any of the other boys. Smoking is _de riguer_ at Latymer and it is allowed in the prefects' room. Her eyes fixate on his fingers which are now painfully grabbing hold of his short sandy brown hair. She can tell he is tense.

"You can't give up now, Al," she rests a hand sweetly on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "Think about the grant..."

"I'm not saying I'm giving up, damnit," he snaps bitterly, shutting his book loudly.

(Y/N) immediately retracts her hand from his shoulder, resting it in her lap, looking like a dog who just got scolded.

He looks at her solemn demeanour and instantly regrets his harsh choice of words.

He breathes through his nose before apologising, "My apologies, (Y/N). I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just worried about the upcoming final terms and I know you're just trying to help. That was rude of me, I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she smiles shyly, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I hear you're excelling in Science, that ought to keep them from taking the grant away from you."

"I know, that's the only thing I have going for me right now..." he hangs his head.

"I can't lose that grant, (Y/N)," he says in all seriousness, "Mother is already struggling to apply for another grant to get me my uniforms for next year..."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says sincerely. "You could always sell these ones and get some second-hand ones for next year."

"No," he sighs defeated. "These need to go to Michael and David..."

"I wish I could help."

"But you can't. You're as poor as I am-...." He stops himself mid-sentence upon realising what he just said.

(Y/N)'s breath hitches in her throat at his words.

While she is comfortable with her tattered leather book bag, her holey undergarments, and the fact that she, too, is only able to attend school on the Direct Grant System, she always feels as if Alan will never quite come to terms with his working-class background. He is always anxious not to seem common. Sure, she might live way over to the east of the 'Scrubs', but at least Alan has a nice council house with running water and electricity. Despite both their cramped surroundings and lack of money, at least his little family is _happy_.

He sees her eyes glaze over as he is sure her mind is going into overdrive, breaking herself down emotionally. Quickly, he tries to think of something to lighten the mood.

"It's a lovely day outside for a picnic, yeah?" He squeezes her hand, his way of saying he is sorry again.

"Indeed, it is. Why don't we finish up and then head outside? I can pack us something," she suggests with newfound joy.

"You two better be good," Margaret seems to have appeared out of nowhere moments later, "I'm off to the corner shop with your brothers and sister," she informs Alan as she pulls out a few coins from her apron.

Her apron. (Y/N) knows Margaret sewed that apron herself. She recalls when his mother had to sew Alan a tiger costume for weeks for their _In the Jungle_ play. Margaret taught all of them, including (Y/N), how to sew.

"How long will you be?" He inquires, already concocting a plan in that big brain of his.

"Heaven alone knows. Michael and David need new underwear, and Sheila asked for a new ribbon for her hair from the hand-me-down shop. You know how indecisive she can be," the old matriarch gives a deep sigh.

One might wonder why Alan isn't invited along to get new underwear, but everyone knows that Margaret doesn't have favourites and treats all her children equally, but her younger ones are due for attention. Due to his lower jaw being very tight and the abnormal height of the roof of his mouth, it causes his words to come out as indistinctive and muffled. His slow way of speaking always meant that he received more attention from his parents as they had to listen carefully to his every word. Luckily he maintained his drawl even after successfully attending speech therapy.

"Come along, children," she calls them down from upstairs.

A stampede of feet scurries down the stairs, making more noise than the trains going by. Within a few seconds, the whole house is quiet and calm.

The teens make quick work of finishing their homework before packing a picnic basket consisting of stuffed tomatoes, some fruits, two marmalade sandwiches, and two glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

Alan politely holds the back door open for (Y/N) as she steps out into the warm spring breeze.

"The garden is lovely," she gasps in awe as her eyes scan the tall green grass, red roses, and purple lavender lining the back perimeter wall.

"You're very beautiful when you smile," he notes out loud, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Come on, Mister Romantic," she leads him by the hand to a shaded spot near the corner of the high brick wall, under a large tree.

He sets outs the red and white gingham blanket on the grass, placing the picnic basket smack dab in the middle. (Y/N) is first to display the contents of the basket on the blanket, shyly reaching for a stuffed tomato, popping it into her mouth.

With a satisfying release of built-up carbon, Alan pops the caps off the two glass bottles, handing an ice-cold Coca Cola to (Y/N). He revels in the feeling of the bubbles burning his throat as he gulps the black liquid down.

(Y/N) gasps, seeing Alan pull a small transistor radio out of his pocket. Every teenager owns one these days, allowing them to listen to pop music on the move.

"Where did you get it?" She stares in awe at the small silver device. 

"You know the money Mother gave me to buy myself lunch with the other day?"

"Hm-mh," she nods. 

"Well, I just didn't eat that day and instead used the money to buy this off Billy The Pigeon by the tracks."

"Wicked cool," she smiles brightly at him.

He fiddles with the knob, finally settling on a station they can listen to, _Ticket to Ride_ from The Beatles playing softly over the static. 

They proceed to enjoy their snacks, talking about the upcoming play they will both be playing the lead roles in. While Alan attends the all-boys Latymer Upper School on the Direct Grant system, (Y/N) attends its sister school, the all-girls Godolphin. Although they don't see a lot of each other during school hours, the two schools do sometimes put on merger plays which they get to act together in.

After she finishes wiping at the crumbs on her mouth, he suggests they lie down together. After clearing the blanket, they both lie down on their backs, staring dreamily at each other.

"You are absolutely sure no one else is here, right?" She asks concerned, looking over at the house, fiddling with her bitten fingernails.

Alan's family rents this flat in the imposing red-brick Edwardian semi-detached house in central Acton backwater, just one street away from the railway line. Alan's Welsh mother belongs to what is proudly known as the respectable working-class - a steady worker with lower-middle-class aspirations.

Number 24 Lynton Road is a multi-occupant house: other rooms on the premises are rented by an elderly lady, Hester Messenbird, and a married couple, Rupert and Violet Oliver. The Rickmans have always been staunch Labour voters, which is indicative of the red posters up in the windows.

"The Olivers are out of town, and Ms Messenbird went to visit her grandchildren in Newham for the week. We are all alone... until my mother and the others return," he reassures, taking her hand in his and giving it a squeeze.

A moment of silence before Alan clears his throat, "May I kiss you, (Y/N)?"

Alan has always been too serious to be flirtatious. His mother being the matriarch that she is, and having raised him as a strong feminist, has resulted in him being completely at ease among the female gender.

There's something so sexy though about his politeness in _asking_ that stirs something deep within her.

"I thought you'd never ask," (Y/N) replies shyly, her fingers fidgeting with her fringe, heart pounding against her ribcage.

He rolls closer to her, gently cupping her jaw. He takes a moment to compose himself, getting rid of all the built-up nerves. He's been wanting to kiss her since he saw her tied-up ponytail flick behind her at the merger sports day back in 1956.

He notes her closing her eyes, waiting for him to move in. Which he does. With an awkward angle, he leans into her, pressing their lips together.

The kiss isn't perfect, not by a long shot. He fumbles, trying to move his tight jaw in a similar rhythmic motion to hers. He also notices that she doesn't open her lips when he sweeps his tongue across it.

She can't breathe anymore and decides to pull away slightly.

"That was amazing," she giggles, feeling her body temperature getting hotter and the space between her legs getting wetter.

"You truly are beautiful, did I mention?" He says in awe as the golden hour approaches, casting the yellow sun rays to shine into her chocolate brown eyes, illuminating her stubby button nose, and her two deep dimples.

"Only like a hundred times already," she jokingly replies, fidgeting with the white border of her skirt. "Thank you for the compliment."

An awkward silence settles between them before she turns her head to look at him again, "Did you want to do that again?"

"I'll do anything you want, but you have to tell me what you want," he murmurs, staring into her eyes.

(Y/N) tips her head at him, "Kiss me like that again."

"Like what?"

"Like you just did."

"Tell me."

"Hard, hot," she elaborates.

Alan turns his head and captures her mouth. His fingers spread over her throat, and he can feel her pulse beating a thousand miles a minute under his touch. He smirks knowing that he is the cause.

Gingerly, (Y/N) reaches for his other hand and tries to pull it up to her breast, but he resists.

"Tell me," he whispers against her lips.

"Touch me," she says softly.

"Where?"

"Here," she says as she runs her fingers over her breast.

"Like this?" Alan brushes his fingertips over her clothed breast, barely grazing her sensitive nipple.

She kisses him back softly before saying, "Harder."

Alan's lips travel along her jaw as his hand closes over her breast and holds her there.

"Better?"

"Squeeze it," she blurts, body trembling in anticipation.

"Hmmm," he hums as his fingers curls into her tender clothed flesh.

He sucks at the pulse throbbing in her neck and she arches into his hand.

"Both hands," she orders.

He's never known (Y/N) to be so dominant or decisive. She's always been very submissive and shy. He guesses it must be all the prohibited magazines she reads. Although, they've never ventured into this kind of territory, so who is he to cast judgement.

Without breaking their kiss, he manoeuvres himself so he can sit on her lap.

(Y/N) moans into his mouth as he cups both of her breasts through her dress, massaging them gently against his palms.

"You like that," she whispers as she shifts her hips under him, rubbing her front against his erection. "You like it when I tell you what to do."

"Mm-hmm," Alan agrees as he squeezes her harder.

"You like my tits," she whispers.

A smug smile curves her lips as he groans and runs his palms over her taut nipples.

"Pinch them, make them harder," she tells him in a whisper.

As he rolls the tightly furled buds between his thumbs and forefingers, it is her turn to moan. "Hmmm yeah," she pants, biting her bottom lip and bucking into him.

"You want to suck them?" She asks in a low taunting voice.

"Yes, please," he growls in her ear.

He has never been this excited, blood rushing to both his heads. He cannot believe what he is hearing. He thought he might try to get frisky with her today, but never did he imagine that she would be the one taking control.

"You want to push between my breasts, rubbing yourself all over me," her words pull him from his lust-filled thoughts.

"Do you want me to?"

(Y/N)'s smile grows as she hears the edge of desperate ache in his voice.

"Not yet," she says, feeling the warm rush of power flooding her veins.

"Touch me," she orders.

"I am," he states confused.

"Lower."

Oh fuck. Here it comes. He's now venturing into a territory that he has no experience with or prior knowledge about.

Alan runs his tongue up the side of her neck, lapping at the slight perspiration starting to stain her skin. He lowers one hand to her clothed stomach, his fingertips drawing lazy circles over her supple feminine curves. "Like this?"

(Y/N) laughs shortly, "You are not that dense."

"I'm just following orders," he whispers as he leans down and nips lightly at her ear.

"I want you to touch my, uhm, fanny, Alan," she says softly, her earlier shyness returning.

Try as she might, she can never be truly dominant, Alan can tell. Her true submissiveness always shows. Even when she tries to tell off other students for bullying her and her friends.

She is immediately rewarded with a low, soft growl as his hand moves further south between them, slipping under her long dress. He slides off her, resting on his side close to her before he runs his fingers through the downy curls at the apex of her legs.

"Wider," he said gruffly as the pad of his middle finger grazes the sensitive flesh peeking from between her folds.

She spreads her feet a little more, watching his forearm as it disappears under her dress, his fingertips teasing her lightly.

"I want you to put your fingers in me," she tells him boldly. "No teasing, no stroking, just push them into me and fuck me with your fingers, Al."

"Jesus," he grunts as she spreads her legs wider still.

Without preamble, he presses his lanky middle finger to her entrance and thrusts into her, finding her hot and slick already.

"Am I wet enough, Alan?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

"Oh, yes," she breathes out as he slides another finger into her, his other hand tightening convulsively around her clothed breast.

"Another," she orders, already addicted to the way his fingers feel inside her.

Alan pulls his fingers from her before thrusting into her hard with three fingers.

She gasps, arching against his thrusting hand, moaning loudly, "I want... I want so much."

"Tell me," Alan urges, eager to please his new lover.

"I want it all. I want you to fuck me with your fingers. Hard," she pants as he thrusts his lanky fingers into her faster, harder.

"I want... I want you... _inside_ me," she screws her eyes shut as she feels the pads of his fingertips press against her sweet spot.

Alan stills his actions, he swears he didn't just hear that right. Did she just proposition him?

"You want me to _debauch_ you?" He asks in disbelief, looking down at her frowning face.

He never thought about going that far with her. At least, not today. In all honesty, Alan has not once thought about wanting to perform the actual _act_. He has only ever thought about kissing and touching below the belt. And her tits. He has always wondered about her tits.

Her face blushes a deep shade of red as she opens her eyes at the lack of his movement within her, seeing his chestnut eyes staring down hard at her.

"...You...don't want to?" She sits up, letting him slip out from within her.

She crosses her legs out of shyness, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's not that. I've just never given it a thou--"

"Ohmygod, you're bleeding?" She asks concerned, looking at his fingers that are resting on his lap.

"I think... _you_ might be," he looks back up at her after inspecting his slick fingers. "Did I hurt you??"

"Oh, no," she hands him a serviette which he uses to wipe her juices off of him, "I read that's normal for the first time."

"You _read_ that? What, in one of those magazines of yours? Has your mother not caught you sneaking them under your pillow by now?"

She looks away from him embarrassed, shrugging in offence, "They're my father's anyway. She knows he buys them, _he_ just doesn't know I steal them from him. My mother doesn't give a rat's fat arse about me."

He really shouldn't have brought up her mother. He knows it's always been a sensitive topic, hence why (Y/N) prefers to spend most of her afternoons at his house. She's grown close to his own mother, probably since hers have been emotionally absent for years.

"Shite," he mentally reprimands himself, "(Y/N), I'm sorry. I mean no malice."

Fuck, what should he do? He didn't mean to ruin the mood. And right now, it feels too tense to be bringing the subject of sex back up.

"It's alright. I know you're just curious," she turns to him, giving him a soft smile.

"God, you truly are beautiful."

She giggles softly, "You've said that already."

"Oh, uhm, Alan..." She points towards his tented trousers, shying her eyes away as she blushes yet again.

"Ah, damnit. Human nature," he shrugs awkwardly, apologising.

"You want to try again?" She suggests as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, referring to their earlier deeds.

"Yes, please, it's getting rather painful without the release," he pulls at his trousers, trying to give himself some space in the frontal area.

The two young teens are soon attached at the lips again as they continue their exploration of each other's clothed bodies.

Soon, (Y/N) finds herself atop her friend, her long flowing dress forming a large spread-out orange circle around them. Like a romantic toilet roll holder.

 _This must be one of the most romantic things that ever happened between two people_ , Alan thinks to himself as he watches her above him, her breasts jumping in her dress as she grinds herself against the front of his pants.

"I didn't... I don't have a _johnny_ with me. Oh, shite, I should have been prepared," he groans, slapping a hand against his forehead.

"Don't worry about it," she replies sweetly, "I guess we can do it without one..." she shrugs.

"But you _have_ to promise me, Alan, the moment you feel like you're going to... _release_ ," she points her finger sternly at him, "you must pull out, okay?"

"You can trust me," he nods excitedly, very glad that he didn't just blow their only shot at losing their V-cards.

Hands fumble under her dress as she tries to unzip him. She finally manages to grab hold of the golden zipper, carefully pulling it down, and taking him out of his white boxer briefs.

With her dress covering them both, they have not yet seen _each other_ , and although they badly want to they cannot risk exposing themselves in the back of the garden to whoever might pass by or happen upon them.

She's already positively dripping wet, staining the front of his pants opening, as she slowly teases her opening with his tip. She might not be able to see _him_ but she sure can picture how thick he is from merely not being able to wrap her delicate fingers around him. She revels in the way his warm, soft flesh feels against her palm, feeling every throbbing vein.

"They say your first time always hurts," she warns, pulling his foreskin back and positioning him at her entrance.

"I'll take it, just... hurry before someone comes," he cranes his neck past her plump body, making sure that the coast is still clear.

She breathes out a nervous, shaky breath before slowly sinking down on top of him. He slowly enters her and she feels her body go still, taking a huge shock of pain.

Her body tenses up as her eyes grow wide. It feels like she's losing all mobility of her body.

"Uuugh," comes a strangled groan from Alan.

Her hearing is fading as her breath shortens. Before she knows it, her anxiety-bitten fingernails are digging into his forearms as she slightly lifts herself off of him.

"Oh, my, you truly are thicker than I thought," she blows out a breath nervously, wondering if he would be able to tear her up inside.

The magazines never said anything about _that_.

"Don't move just yet," her face scrunches up as he grabs hold of her hips.

"Are you alright?" Alan asks concerned, looking at her painful expression.

"Yeah," she lies through gritted teeth, her eyes slightly tearing up.

 _Hell no_ , is what she wants to say. This shit feels like it goes in like a pineapple and comes out like a porcupine.

Her face is hot, she can feel it, and her body is sweating from nervousness.

She feels him starting to pull out, "No! Don't pull out," she stops him.

"Keep going."

"But if you're hurting, surely we should stop," his words are laced with proper concern.

She feels her hymen tearing as she tries to control the tears that are threatening to leak out of her eyes, breathing out of control through clenched teeth.

"It's adjusting to the size. It's going to feel good, I promise," she sniffs, encouraging him to start his strokes.

Slowly, he pushes up into her, eliciting a seething moan from her.

After the first onset of pain subsides, she gives a relieved breath, taking in the feeling. It feels wonderful, like heaven on earth. Her tightness swallows his entire length and girth, she is so tight that it seems as if she's conforming to him.

She gasps at the air but her lip keeps quivering, her heart beating erratically. _Is this still from the pain or the overwhelming emotions?_

 _Oh, god, this feels too good to be true_ , Alan thinks to himself.

The way that her wetness coats him, her walls clamping down with every tiny push that he gives. Looking up at her, he admires her body - her perfectly fuller set of breasts, her stomach, and the curvature of her wide hips. All of this gloriousness _on top of him_.

While he continues to stroke in and out of her, Alan keeps talking to her to calm her nerves. 

_Her nerves? What about his nerves?_

He instructs her to put his hand over his heart, feeling just how nervous he is about all of this, too. The fact that she can feel his heart thudding underneath her palm makes her relax.

"It feels good, I promise," he breaths, wrapping his long and thin arms around her, pulling her down to him, resting the side of his head against her plump bosom.

She breathes through her nose, finally adjusting to his size. The feeling is indescribable after all. His soft velveteen flesh rubbing against her inner walls, stretching her out. _Oh, god, it feels good. How can anyone not want sex every second of the day?_

After a while, she starts to enjoy it, telling Alan to speed up a little. She moans lowly, embarrassed by her body's involuntary responses, but she can't help it.

"Ah, Alan," she moans, finding his lips and slipping her tongue into his warm, wet mouth.

Alan's eyes shoot open at feeling her tongue in his mouth. Besides for the sex part, this is what he's been longing for the entire time.

She wonders if this is what his cock feels. The warm slickness of flesh, as her tongue thrusts in and out of his mouth, running along his soft lips, tasting the tobacco on him.

Everything feels right, the position of her sitting on top of him, him under her, her hands resting on Alan's flat chest, him squeezing at her breasts.

"I found this... button-like... thing that feels really good when you press on it," (Y/N) pants in a raggedy breath as she pulls away from their kiss to catch her breath.

"Where?"

"It's down _there_ , do you want to touch it?" She asks hopeful.

Hesitantly, and without looking, he slips his hand underneath her dress, fumbling.

"Tell me when I touch it--"

"OHH, O-O-OH," her legs start to jerk involuntarily as he finds her swollen nub.

She uses one shaking hand to cover her mouth, the other on Alan's shoulder to hold herself steady, as she screws her eyes shut and hangs her head.

It is a new feeling, a pleasurable feeling, an overwhelmingly pleasurable feeling.

"That powerful, huh?" He smirks, taking in every emotion displayed on her face.

Minutes and minutes pass, Alan and (Y/N) both moaning in between their kissing.

That means he is enjoying it as much as she is.

Their hormones begin to take over from them both, letting go of whatever sensations they have.

Her pleasure starts peaking as is indicative of her increasing moans.

"Oh, yes, Alan. This feels amazing," she says as a surge of what she can only describe as an electric shock, pulses through her.

She bends down, resting her forehead against his shoulder, clutching at his light blue school uniform shirt, as he increasingly pumps faster into her.

The contractions of her walls that flow over his cock are so stimulating that he cannot hold back any longer.

"Alan, my dear boy, is that you?" Comes the familiar low drawl of his Welsh grandfather.

"Guugh!" Alan groans, shaking, frantically looking around him, quickly making sure that they are completely covered.

Shite, what is he to do? If she gets off of him, his grandfather will surely see his cock that will hang like an elephant's trunk from the opening in his school trousers.

"Sit... still..." He whispers to (Y/N) through clenched teeth, straightening out her dress around them.

They're both exhausted, perspiration stains evident on the underarm areas of his shirt, and on her dress under her breasts.

Her nipples are still erect, visible through her dress, so she crosses her arms in front of her chest. Still, she does as she is told, plastering a polite smile onto her face as her hooded eyes trail the old man making his way towards them.

She clears her throat awkwardly as a hot blush starts to creep up her neck. She cannot believe Alan is still _in_ her with an old man approaching.

"Hello, you two," his grandfather greets down at the couple with the voice of a foghorn.

"Grandfather," Alan nods his head, flashing a tight-lipped smile in his direction.

Not having met Alan's grandfather before, (Y/N) isn't sure what to do in this situation. She doesn't want him to think her to be rude. Surely she should stand up to greet the older man, but she can't. So, instead, she sticks her hand out to him, offering him a handshake.

At the slight twist of her hips, Alan growls lowly, balling a fist and clenching down hard on it with his teeth.

"Nice to meet you, sir, you must be Alan's grandfather," she swears she can hear her heart beating in her ears.

Alan can see his grandfather thinking to himself how rude the two teens are for not standing up to greet him.

"Grandfather, what are you doing here?" Alan inquires, surprised and rather annoyed that the old man interrupted their fun.

"I came 'round to see your mother," he points into the direction of the house with his wooden cane.

"She's not here. She's at the corner shop with the others," Alan says quickly, rather hoping that he would want to go there.

"I'll wait here then."

"Oh, must you?" Alan sighs, letting his head fall back in defeat against the picnic blanket.

"Yes, yes. Lovely day outside, isn't it?" He folds his old, wrinkly hands in front of him, resting them on his cane, "Perfect day for romance. Sunset, the buzzing of bees, the warm spring breeze..."

He points his cane again, trailing it along the direction of the perimeter wall, " And look at all these flowers in full bloom. Would be a shame to _deflower_ such beauty," he raises his eyebrows knowingly at the young pair.

"Hm," Alan hums, looking apologetically up at (Y/N).

A full fifteen minutes pass by, Alan's grandfather making polite conversation, keeping the two from finishing up. Alan is a hundred percent sure that he is as limp as a garden hose by now, listening to such snore-boring tales about the war and _the great depression_.

"Alright, well, I guess I'll go down to the corner store after all and leave you two to it," the old man winks at them before bidding them goodbye.

They remain still and quiet as their eyes trail him disappearing behind the house.

"Thank god. I thought he'd never leave," Alan sighs in relief, closing his eyes briefly.

She has to admit, her pleasure was rather short-lived and she had rather hoped to bask in the afterglow with Alan.

She slides off of him, catching a glimpse of him before he stuffs himself back into his trousers.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, showing his bloody hand that he just put himself away with, indicating to her blood that is now surely coating his underwear.

"I'm hurting a little but I enjoyed it. Thank you," she hands him a serviette which he uses to clean his hand with.

He kisses her softly, whispering a _thank you_ to her too.

Suddenly, she becomes very aware of a dripping wetness trickling down her leg. She would not have started her period just yet, she's not due for another two weeks. And surely, she could not be bleeding _that_ much from the sex.

"Alan?" (Y/N)'s concerned voice causes him to look up at her again. "Before your grandfather came 'round the corner, did you _finish_?"

"I think so, why?" He says, trying to think back to it all.

Ugh, did he just miss his first orgasm?

"Did you finish _inside_ me?" The pitch of her voice climbs higher in realisation.

She shoves her hand beneath her dress, running her fingers along her slit, revealing a gooey white mess as she brings them before her eyes.

"Oh, SHITE!!" He runs his palm over his face in panic, "I'm so sorry, (Y/N), I didn't realise it was happening."

"Okay, just... stay calm," she breathes a shaky breath, running her other hand through her now post-coital ruffled hair. "I think my mother has some emergency oral contraceptive in her bathroom cabinet."

"O-Okay...? Will that... help?" Alan asks, agitatedly getting onto his knees.

"Only if I go take it right now," she nervously babbles, looking around for her possessions which she remembers are still at the kitchen table.

She hastily reaches for the remaining picnic contents, fumbling as she tries to stuff it back into the basket.

"Leave it," Alan offers, "I'll tidy up here. Go get your bag and hurry home."

"Thanks, Alan," she places a passionate kiss on his lips, "I'll call you later, okay?"

He nods before watching her run across the garden, disappearing into the house.

She stuffs her homework papers into her bag, tugs on her cardigan, and runs out of the front door.

"Oh, off so soon, deary?" Alan's mother bumps into her just outside the front door, the three small sets of eyes belonging to his siblings staring at her.

"Gotta run, Mrs Rickman. See you tomorrow!" She waves them off as her stubby legs carry her home as fast as she can trot. 


End file.
